No Forcing, No Holding Back

No Forcing, No Holding Back
by Ingrid Lochamire

The moment I opened my car door, I could hear the creek — a gurgling rush of water, spilling over rocks and roots. The sun-lit flash I had spotted as I pulled into the driveway cut through the center of our new homestead, laying down tracks to a destination unknown, yet pre-determined.

The bubbling welcome of that narrow flow of water on an early spring morning was a harbinger of what was to come. In the days, weeks and years ahead, my husband and I would claim this 100-acre patch of land as our home. We would raise a family, start a business and steward the acreage surrounding our century-old brick house, anchored by this artery that would become our family’s lifeline.

Shallow and sandy-bottomed, the creek is bone-chilling cold even in the middle of summer. It flows east from a cistern that captures water from a nearby spring-fed pond. The pond is still and murky, filled with vegetation that sustains wildlife. Turtles and frogs are visited seasonally by sleek silver muskrats. It welcomes Canadian geese temporarily nesting to hatch babies and the occasional curious heron who feeds on tadpoles. It’s a peaceful habitat, ringed by redbud trees, wildflowers and cat tails.

In contrast, the creek that spills from the cistern gateway sparkles with action and intent. Water escaping the pond is void of wildlife as it races toward a bigger stream that flows to a river that dumps into a fresh water lake 10 miles away.

The creek and the tall maple and walnut trees lining its shores became our sons’ playground. Shallow enough to be safe and brisk enough to provide chilling entertainment on hot summer days, the creek was their favorite setting for tiny boat races and GI Joe battles. Bare feet, damp shorts, abandoned sneakers, sunburned noses — small sacrifices for an afternoon by the creek.

As the boys grew, the creek was first a boundary line then a rite of passage. Crossing the creek’s homemade bridge to explore the banks of the pond under the watchful eye of an older brother was a privilege earned. In time, the churning water flowing beneath the bridge inspired young fellows testing their skills with guitars and with cameras, as the unassuming waterway showed up in songs and photographs.

And once the creek was abandoned by our boys for cars and music, friends, college and travel, it became my sanctuary. The shore guided my prayer-filled walks. The swirling stream served as a quiet background for recording a mother’s reflections. The calming steady flow of water brought music to the stillness of our empty nest.

In the year after our youngest went off to college, my husband placed a covered bridge upstream from the little handmade crossover. On a beautiful spring day, in a wedding ceremony by the pond, the wooden bridge served as a fitting pathway for a son’s crossover from bachelorhood to husband. Memories collided to the murmur of the bubbling creek. Past, present and future joined forces in a clear, life-giving flow of water that continues to mark the passage of time. Soon, another generation will build boats of twigs and leaves and launch them from the wooden bridge. Squeals will rise as tiny toes press into the sandy bottom, ankles numbed by the rush of cold water.

My husband was a farm boy. This country life is familiar to him. I grew up at the end of a street in a small town, miles from flowing waterways and silent ponds. Still, in the driveway of our future, I had recognized the creek for the gifts it held for our family and for me. A familiar craving surfaced 30 summers ago as I stood in it for the first time, bare feet tingling toward numbness, sand, tadpoles and leafy debris washing over my toes. My own childhood dreams of flowing water bumped up against memories of summer afternoons fishing from the pier on grandma’s lake and I knew. This is what I had longed for, this cleansing, stimulating rush that told me I was alive.

The poet Rainer Maria Rilke gives voice to my wish for myself and for my family:

“May what I do flow from me like a river, no forcing and no holding back, the way it is with children.”

Perhaps the poet stood on the banks of a little creek like mine as it flowed into a river and poured into a lake. No doubt he observed the way it is with children, who dangle their feet in shallow currents then step ashore and into life “no forcing and no holding back.”



Ingrid Lochamire is an author, speaker and former journalist. She’s also a “retired” home educator who graduated four sons before returning to her roots as a writer. She blogs regularly and recently began co-hosting the podcast On the Front Porch. Her reflections on rural life, faith and family have been published online in the literary journal Topology, at the website Perennial Gen and on The Redbud Post. Ingrid and her husband live on a farm in a beautiful glacial valley in northeast Indiana. Ingrid is on InstagramFacebook and Pinterest as Ingrid Lochamire.


by Jennie Cesario

I watched at a window, a twin winging each hip, as they hollowed you from the earth, careful as surgeons, a dozen work-booted men, each jumping on his own shovel. The man-in-charge, the one who’d driven by the week before and offered us the money, had a sixth-sense about margins: the reach of root systems and the profit-potential on mature Japanese maples. I remember how he studied you long before limning you wide on our lawn in two white Cs scarcely touching: the spray-painted circle of your excavation.

Afterward, once those white-tipped blades of grass met the metal-tip blades of shovels, there was no turning back, no running out onto the front porch to say, “Stop! Stop! We’ve changed our minds!” His men dug only at his gesture, paused only at his command, alert to his every precaution. He spoke to them in serviceable Spanish, to me in English. “There’s a buyer,” he said, “shopping for instant curb appeal for a new estate out in East Hampton.” Someone not in need, as we were, of fast cash for infant formula and double boxes of diapers.

I remember, still, the way they lifted you from the earth, the hulking forceps, the clods of dirt falling from your fibers like fat clots of blood, the clumpy clay trail you left all the way to the street. And I remember, too, your tall dignity, your shapely limbs when they set you on the flatbed, roots balled in burlap, boughs crisscrossed with rope, your florid buds rounded and swollen. It was early spring, and you hadn’t yet birthed your scores of seeds, each a rosy twin anchoring crepey wings, spiraling.

Afterward, the man-in-charge paid us the promised $550.

And you understood – maybe? House-poor, new mortgage, one paycheck, two babies. Didn’t that all pass between us the night before when I laid my palm on your bough, one mother to another? Those dozen men, too, they needed their day wages; as did the man-in-charge, the one who owned the truck they carted you away on. God made trees for beauty, but also for sustenance, and we were all of us a long, long way from the Garden of Eden.

Afterward, the light fell all wrong, just as I knew it would. And it still does: the shadeless walkway, the sun-drenched front porch, our dining room’s dusty corners; the south-facing front door my adult twins now come and go from: rosy seeds ripened into full-grown trees, their lengthened limbs once nourished by your hollow.




Jennie Cesario is a Christ-follower, a writer, and a teacher. Her words have appeared in the Perennial Gen, the Redbud Post, Fathom Magazine, and the Ginosko Literary Journal. Follow her writing journey at where she muses on life and literature in the lamplight of faith, or on social media: TwitterFacebookInstagram.


by Leslie A. McLeod

Feet that walk in Garden cool,
Stride atop tempestuous seas.   
Voice that speaks Creation’s all.
Hands smear clay:  a blind man sees.

Weary head on pillow stone,
Laughing eyes in knowing love,
Jordan’s droplets in his hair
Spirit-kissed by Heaven’s dove.

Borrowed flesh paid debts not owed:
Shattered torso, hands, and feet.
Sovereign.  Savior.  Servant.  Friend.
Your breath in me.  My soul complete.  


Living near Southern California coast, Leslie’s artistic leanings provide an alter ego to her role as co-owner of a tech company with her husband.  She picks up her pen again after a hiatus to raise their two children and develop a passion for painting.   After losing her parents a few years ago, she is writing a book to help other women walk through that painful season without the added burden of unresolved relational regret.   She emerges from 40 years wandering in her own see-saw wilderness,  elated to hear and share the voice of her soul’s Beloved.  Connect with her on Facebook and at

The Crumbling Mess of My Heart

The Crumbling Mess of My Heart
by Sharla Fritz

Ruins everywhere. As I walk the site of an ancient city in Israel, I sigh at the sight of destruction. I see nothing left but stacks of well-worn stone. Tumbled-down walls of rock. Debris from past lives. Remnants of greatness.

These disintegrating leftovers of a town provide a picture of all I don’t want my life to be. I hope for strength, for power, for influence. I’m ashamed to admit my drive for recognition. Although the desires for both success and servanthood compete in my heart, ambition usually wins. The quest for greatness often pushes the yearning for Christ-like humility right out of my soul.

Yet, as I look at the decaying walls, I remember—greatness never lasts. Here, what once thrived now disintegrates into unrecognizable mounds of dirt and rock.

Then, I stop.

I see signs of life even in the wreckage. On top of a pile of rubble, bright-red anemones spring up, green stems swaying in the chilly spring breeze. Traces of beauty dancing on top of a crumbling foundation.

And I think—isn’t that just like God? He takes the ruins of my life—my pride in my work that often deteriorates into failure. The mess my selfishness has made of my relationships. The tumbled-down state of my sinful heart.

Somehow God uses that crumbling foundation to sow seeds of His relentless love in my heart. He breaks up the pride just enough so that His affection takes root. He rains down His righteousness to water the knowledge of His passion for me.

And I begin to realize—accomplishments may draw the attention of the world for a season. I can continue to work to pile up stones of impressive achievements. But the striving will wear down my soul and for what? Time will also erode any signs of my success.

But when I allow the seeds of God’s love to take root in my soul, I begin to trust that He accepts me just as I am. His love begins to bloom and the need to pile up more stones of accomplishments starts to fade. As His love fills my heart, I can offer beauty and grace to the world—qualities much more needed than any wall of greatness I might construct for myself.

Turning to leave the ruins, I offer the crumbling mess of my heart as a place for God’s unconditional love to grow and bloom.


Sharla Fritz is a Christian author and speaker who weaves honest and humorous stories into life-changing Bible study. Author of the new book God’s Relentless Love: A Study of Hosea, Sharla writes about God’s transforming grace and unfailing love. Sharla lives in the Chicago suburbs with her amusing pastor husband. Learn more about living in God’s love at:

Connect with her on Facebook and Twitter.

The Women Heard

The Women Heard
by Michelle Henrichs

”Very early in the morning on the first day of the week, the women went to the tomb, bringing the fragrant spices they had prepared.” (Luke 24:1, CEB)

The women heard
that something happened in the garden after dinner.
The men were overcome by exhaustion
unable to keep watch.
There was a kiss of betrayal
swords were drawn
and a final miracle occurred
because violence is not what Jesus sought.

The women heard
that in the wee hours of the morning
when all should have been sleeping
a trial took place
shuttling between the houses of power.
Betrayal continued.
The men fled
and Jesus was left alone.

The women heard
how Jesus was beaten and mocked
how blood was shed
until rivers of red crossed the earth.
Until finally he was led
like a criminal
carrying the heavy crosspiece
to the place determined for his death.

The women saw
Jesus nailed to the cross.
How he agonized.
How he thirsted.
How he forgave.
How he died
obedient to love even unto death.

The women went
to the tomb
to see where his body laid.
To try and understand
how all this could be.
How the one who had raised the dead
now lay dead in a rock tomb.

The women went
home to prepare the sabbath meal
to honor the Lord
despite his death.
They recounted God’s faithfulness
and the promise of the Messiah.

And the women wondered
about what would happen


Classically trained as a Certified Public Accountant, Michelle Henrichs is a second-career pastor in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.). She loves Jesus and the Bible and seeks to help others do so as well. Pastor to Heritage Presbyterian Church, a real-estate free congregation that now worships in a senior living community, Michelle lives in Wisconsin with her husband and two sons. Author of Prayers for the People: Scripturally Based Prayers for Worship and Come to the Table: Communion Liturgies of Invitation to Celebrate and Experience the Love of God you can find out more about her on her blog, Life in the Labyrinth. Connect with her on Facebook and Twitter.


by Hadassah Treu

I need you in the ruins of my heart,
in all the wounded, desolated places
where darkness comes in as a flood,
I need your tender, healing grace.

Restore the ruins of my life
search out all the cracks and gaps,
invade them, filling them with light,
erase all paths to pain, all maps.

I long to see the nearing restoration,
to see it coming like the rising sun
to hear it calling every ruin to alteration,
preparing them for the life to come.

When all the broken becomes a space,
completely ruled by love and grace.


Hadassah Treu is a communications specialist, a devotional writer, poet, and translator, holding a master’s in international relations. Hadassah is a regular contributor to several faith-based platforms like DevotableApp and a contributing author to several anthologies in English and Bulgarian. Her first poetry book in Bulgarian was published in summer 2020. Her poems in English are featured on Thoughts About God, Poetry Host: Christian Poetry & Spoken Word and Words INverse. Connect with her at, Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

Things I’m Good At

Things I’m Good At
by Charity Singleton Craig

“Good job,” my husband said, when I hopped back into the warm SUV.

We’d just finished eating yet another pandemic Friday night dinner in the car and had driven to a CVS Pharmacy to dispose of the leftovers. I’d made the quick dash from car to outside trash receptacle and back to throw away the bag full of carryout containers, paper napkins, and plastic dinnerware.

“Throwing away garbage isn’t something I want to be good at,” I told Steve, pulling the door closed and rebuckling myself into the car.

“Sorry,” he said, as he shrugged, backed out of the parking spot, and headed for home.

My response might have been more gracious if I wasn’t still thinking about the time just a couple of weeks earlier when a dental assistant told me I was good at dental hygiene.

“Thanks?” I said, more as a question than a response.

“During your last cleaning, Courtney wrote down that it took only four units … that’s how we measure it,” she explained. “Most people have way more. Four is really great.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess.”

For a second, the compliment gave me that puffed-up feeling of pride. I’m good at something, I thought. But as the dentist continued fitting a crown on my tooth, taking it on and off to shave it down and be sure it fit correctly, I wondered why it mattered. Would I really be sitting here now if I was that good at dental hygiene? And what kind of compliment was that anyway?


Over the years, I’ve been good at lots of less-than-glamorous things. When I was on staff at a church, I could clear a paper jam in the copy machine like no one else. When I worked as a data analyst, I knew more about Excel spreadsheets than anyone else in the office. I can resize photos, complete tax returns, remember appointments, and even order durable medical equipment off the Internet like nobody’s business.

And the reason I know? These are all things people have told me I’m good at over the years.


Of course I do the same thing to the people I care about. Though my husband is good at tons of things that are important to him, the ones I compliment him on usually have to do with things like vacuuming the living room, packing the car, and choosing Netflix movies. Same thing for our sons. Over the years, I can remember telling them that they’re good at cleaning their rooms, turning in their homework on time, and clearing their plates after dinner.

Does anyone want to be good at clearing his plate? Probably not any more than someone wants to be good at dental hygiene or spreadsheets. But here we are.

Recently, our youngest son has taken up the guitar, and he’s getting quite proficient. As I was lying in bed one evening reading, I heard him practicing through the thin walls of our hundred-year-old house.

“You sound so GOOD!” I texted, because I’m also good at digital parenting, apparently.

But I heard no response. Not a text back. Not even an emoji. Not a “thank you” the next morning. Nothing.

And I wondered: have all those compliments about remembering to turn off the oven and texting me his work scheduled numbed him to my praise about the things that really matter to him? Will he ever believe he’s actually good at something if I continue to throw the phrase around so casually?


I keep thinking about that dental hygienist and her compliment about my brushing and flossing prowess. What made her congratulate me on something so inane? Did she think I’d be pleased by her admiration? Does she compliment all her patients? (Because really, I have no idea what 4 units even means.) Or did she simply see something in my life that was important to her? The possibility for connection. An opportunity to bless rather than curse.

In fact, as I think about all the times people have complimented me on things I couldn’t care less about, it’s usually when my skill, however unimportant to me, offers them some sort of relief, validation, or joy in their own lives. Getting the copier unjammed when someone really needed a document, helping with a spreadsheet so a client could be appeased, ordering medical equipment so my mom could have even a little independence following her debilitating stroke: my good work made a real difference to someone. Even if that someone wasn’t me.

And I’m sure I’ve complimented others for the same reasons: in the moment, when Steve thoroughly sweeps the stairs or Jacob handles his own schoolwork, it means I don’t have to be responsible for those things or worry that they won’t be done. It’s a burden lifted, if even a small one.


What do I really want to be good at? That’s the question I’ve been asking myself lately. If not spreadsheets and paperjams, then what competencies would quicken my own spirit? What mastery would make me happy? Decorating my home? Baking pies? Writing essays? Amassing Instagram followers? Wowing an audience?

And what is it in others that should capture my notice and nod? If my typical compliments are an expression of what others have done for me, how can my “good job” be a gift expressly for them? What can I notice about my husband and sons that honors their passions and interests? What can I acknowledge in friends and coworkers that demonstrates an understanding of their true gifts?

Maybe the point lies somewhere in the wisdom of Ralph Waldo Emerson, who once said, “Sincerity is the highest compliment you can pay.” Maybe “good job” isn’t as much a compliment in these situations as it is an expression of gratitude. Maybe the real compliment is the small act of kindness that didn’t go unnoticed. The real compliment is meeting needs, offering care, doing what needs to be done even if it isn’t glamorous or Pinterest-worthy. And if I’m honest, those actually are the things I want to be good at: compassion, mercy, love. Even more than a soft, flaky crust or a viral social media post.

Plus, if we have to brush our teeth and throw away garbage and turn in our homework on time anyway, isn’t it better that we’re good at it than not?



Charity Singleton Craig is a writer, author, and speaker, who chases wonder through stories of faith, hope, and love. She is the author of The Art of the Essay: From Ordinary Life to Extraordinary Words and coauthor of On Being a Writer: 12 Simple Habits for a Writing Life That Lasts. She has written for several publications, including Edible Indy, In Touch Magazine, Redbud Post, InCourage, Christianity Today, The High Calling, The Curator, The Perennial Gen, Discipleship Journal, Tweetspeak Poetry, The Write Life, Grubstreet Daily, and others. You can find her online at and Instagram @charitysingletoncraig.

Better Homes and Gardens

Better Homes and Gardens
by Chavon Barry

I stare out the backseat van window spotted with raindrops that enlarge and then race in forked patterns over the glass. Ready, set, go. I tease two twin dots. They accept my challenge and fall. I can’t tell which one wins. One curves left and the other slowly disappears before reaching the sill. The contest ends when tires crunch over the familiar gravel driveway.

We’ve arrived at Grandma’s house. My ten-year-old eyes light up because when I’m here, I believe the storybooks are real. She lives in a rustic log cabin. In the summer her property overflows with apple trees: crabapple, MacIntosh, Golden Delicious. In the winter the stone fireplace crackles and sparks.

The house sits on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean. Inside there’s a real hidden staircase that leads to the attic. It’s the perfect height for giddy grandchildren.

I go up the stairs and find Grandma’s big blue trunk filled with her old skirts and blouses. I rifle through them, looking for the floor-length brown wool skirt. I slip it on and become royalty. My fingers trace the gable roofline and cloth-covered walls as I walk toward the secret room at the end of the hall. I step into it and soak up the cedar-pane window view. Grandma’s city-tour-stop flowers bloom below and the wide ocean expands ahead.

For today, this cabin is my castle.


“Chavon, can you weed around the rhododendron?” Mom closes the Better Homes and Gardens magazine I’m reading. I give her a teenage eye-roll, stand but continue to think about the article.

What style is your home? Tudor? Victorian? Colonial? Country French? I can’t say that any of these categories match my parents’ 80’s-built-split-level. Maybe one day I’ll design my own house but for now I wait, imagine and try to predict the future.

My best friend and I play a game called M.A.S.H. The acronym stands for mansion, apartment, shack or house and the answer will measure how successful I’ll be.

I choose four possible husbands, three car models, and five numbers to represent potential children.

My friend presses pen to paper and draws a spiral. Around and around it goes until I say, “Stop.” All I need do is say the word. She’ll do the math and map out my adult years.

“Stop daydreaming,” Mom says as she puts gardening gloves in my hands.


I marry Joshua and we have three boys that race raindrops from the back of a van.

”Are we there yet?” They ask and I secretly wonder with them.

Are we?

We live in a two-bedroom ground floor rental suite with chipped paint and a broken window the landlord never bothered fixing before we moved in. The view is uninspiring–a thick hedge on one side and a leaning fence on the other. I can’t see over them.

If I’m honest, I grieve the distance between my expectations and lived reality. I grieve what I can’t control or design. There are too many variables and every time I try to play architect a new one appears.

I sit in my yellow chevron-striped rocking chair with the ripped sleeve. My friend bought it second-hand and restored it for her nursery. Then she gave it to me when her son preferred to be bounced. I nursed two babies in it and, though it’s worn, it’s my favorite chair.

The truth is, despite a tendency to complain, I see the gifts too. The fingerprints of grace dance all over our house—the tiny muddy fingerprints of our children but also the soil-stained hands of friends and family, of help.

I’d love to tell each gift’s story—the bed frame, the freezer, the kitchen table, the car, the trampoline in the back, the X-box, the dishwasher, the stack of borrowed books, the hand-me-down clothes.

Behind the free furnishings and met needs are hot tea visits and shared tears; promised prayers and Saturday dinners; evening walks and listening ears. I’m far from alone.

I think about what Moses says to the Israelites in Deuteronomy. “You’ll know you’re in the promised land when your houses are filled with all kinds of good things you did not provide.”

My house may not be magazine worthy but I’m learning to see the hidden staircase.

I open the Bible and read from the beginning.

Adam and Eve hide from the sound of God’s footsteps as he walks in the cool of the day through his garden. He searches for them. They need him but they are afraid.

When he finds them, he clothes them.

I shut my eyes and for a minute I’m the little girl dressed in wool beside the cedar window. The garden is beautiful, the ocean wide. Over the years I’ve become well acquainted with fear but right now I’ll delight in the flowers the Gardener keeps planting here and in the invitation to dig my hands into the soil and learn how seeds grow.


Chavon Barry writes about faith, beauty and mess. She’s a mom to three boys, a wife, a teacher and an editor at Collected Online Arts Magazine. She calls Vancouver Island, Canada home. Connect with her on Facebook and on her website:

December Grief

December Grief
by Stacey Nalean-Carlson

Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God.
Lights through tears are a living thing
moving in place,
now blurred, now brilliant,
Eyelids close in unbounded regret,
squeezed shut in a silent scream,
but even then the light lives—
rainbows dancing on water,
Advent hope


Stacey Nalean-Carlson draws inspiration from walks in the woods, conversations with her kids, and worship with the congregations she serves as pastor. She lives in Decorah, Iowa with her spouse, three sons, and two dogs. Subscribe to her blog at Facebook: Stacey Nalean-Carlson. Twitter: @staceyjnc. Instagram: staceynaleancarlson.

Leaky Vessels

Leaky Vessels
by Wemi Omotosho

We are all apparently earthenware.

Vessels cleverly crafted with care and designed by a loving Potter, a Master of His trade graced especially in the working of clay.

But what if.

What if you didn’t think you are good enough  to be a vessel? A receptacle meant to hold.

I looked around and was taunted by the myriad designs of other earthenware around me; seemingly laden with glittering gold and sparkling silver; precious stones and other untold valuables.

For many years, I could only see the many and glaring imperfections of my clay. Cracks abounded plentifully and leaks ensued on a regular basis.

What use is a vessel that has leaks?

But sadly, I’ve only ever retained some of what God does in my life and I don’t do well at holding onto the lessons He teaches me.

With all my frailties and inadequacies, how could I carry His precious treasure?

That greatest treasure of all.

I judged myself and was found wanting.

Until one day…

When I realized that it was in those leaks that my story intersected with God’s.

What if the cracks I had so desperately tried to hide and patch up with my strength are there to allow hope to shine bright?

What if these cracks are the exact reason I was made with clay – so that His excellency can shine through and not mine?

“But we have this precious treasure [the good news about salvation] in [unworthy] earthen vessels [of human frailty], so that the grandeur and surpassing greatness of the power will be [shown to be] from God [His sufficiency] and not from ourselves.” 2 Cor 4:7 (AMP)

I see now that the Potter sits with me in the cracks. Though I want to hurry straight through to sanctification.

To sinless perfection.

But He sits with me in the here and not yet. In the groaning and tension. As I inch my way towards sanctification. Only to stumble and stagnate. Or take unscheduled detours that break my heart and His.

I once read somewhere about the Japanese art of kintsukuroi and it occurred to me that this is what God does.

He fills the empty spaces, holding my cracks, ugly fissures and splintered fragments together to make a beautiful pattern of restored hope that reflects His glory.

For a long time, I believed the lie that my less-than-stellar story – my cracks and leaks – disqualified me from being useful to the Potter. Even now, I startle every time He dips His hand and brings up something new from this leaky and once-upon-a-time-condemned clay vessel.

When I think about it, I realize that I am fully seen and completely Loved. Imperfect but overlaid with grace even as the Potter is still molding and yet forming His perfect work.



Wemi Omotosho, PhD wears many hats as a scientist, entrepreneur, and writer. Currently, she lives with her husband and two children in London, UK. Wemi is active in her local church as a vocalist in the worship team, a bible study writer, and a coordinator for the public relations department. In her downtime, she can usually be found with her nose in a book or writing poetry. She is in constant awe of God’s love for her despite her mess. She shares her reflections and poems at Instagram: @reflectionsinthemess
Twitter: @WemiOmotosho